‘And you’re at the centre of it and you get a scoop,’ Tom said. ‘Then afterwards you tell the real story.’

‘Right,’ Alice said.

‘And our safety is less important than this story?’

‘No,’ Alice said. ‘Of course not. But I don’t know that our safety is compromised.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘We don’t? We do know this guy’s crazy, and that he knows our address and all about us. Isn’t that enough?’

‘Wynne thought we’re – I’m – not the target. There’s a ritual. And even if I am, the police will be nearby.’

Tom knew his wife. She had a quiet determination that bordered on stubbornness.

Crossed the border, if truth be told. She could be stubborn to the point of intransigence. She tried not to be – she recognized it as an unpleasant characteristic – but she couldn’t help it. In their first house they had argued about the colour they were going to paint the second bedroom. Alice had chosen the colour of all the other rooms, and so he decided to make a final stand about the last room to be painted.

She had refused to compromise, and in the end he had accused her of being stubborn. She had paused, then said, OK, have your colour.

He had painted the room, and then, the following Sunday come back from the pub to find it painted the colour she had wanted all along.

And she had that look about her now.

‘There’s nothing I can say to stop this, is there?’ Tom said.

‘No,’ Alice replied. ‘Not really.’

‘Jesus,’ Tom said. ‘How did they get our address? And Joanna’s name?’

‘An address is easy to get,’ Alice said. ‘And they could have found out about Jo from your Facebook. That’s why I don’t have it. People post way too much personal information on there. Middle names, birthdays, kids’ birthdays, favourite teachers, holiday dates and destinations. All that stuff used to be secret.’

‘I’ll close mine down.’

Alice looked at her watch. ‘I have to go. The press conference is starting. Will you be OK with Jo?’

Tom closed his laptop. ‘I’ll be fine. And Alice – be careful, OK?’

‘I will,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry.’

Ambleside, 2013

Alice

Ned had left before breakfast, but he did not make it far before he contacted her.

It’s not too late. I’m at Oxenholme and can get a train back

It was at Oxenholme that the local train changed to the mainline, and he clearly saw it as the last chance to salvage their holiday.

Alice read the message and slipped the phone back into her pocket. If he asked she could say she had missed it.

‘Was that Ned?’ Brenda said. They were sitting on the bank of a river – the Rothay, a plaque said – their feet in the water.